


I saw a picture frame (it turned out to be a mirror)

by jonsrightrib (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts, Wilde Needs A Hug, based off religion, give this man a hug, im being careful with tags, mild though, this got real sad whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/jonsrightrib
Summary: There's someone in his mirror.It's a man with hollows in his face and smudges of black under his eyes. The man in the mirror has the emptiest blue eyes he's ever seen– they're almost grey. He's reminded of the sky before it rains, that stupid rain that an umbrella won't keep out, that cuts you down to the bone.AKA Wilde needs to get some sleep
Relationships: The London and Other London Outstanding Mercenary Group | LOLOMG & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	I saw a picture frame (it turned out to be a mirror)

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I'm now projecting onto Mr Oscar Wilde so he's suffering.
> 
> THIS IS SAD BUT THE END IS HOPEFUL I PROMISE

There's someone in his mirror.

It's a man with hollows in his face and smudges of black under his eyes. The man in the mirror has the emptiest blue eyes he's ever seen– they're almost grey. He's reminded of the sky before it rains, that stupid rain that an umbrella won't keep out, that cuts you down to the bone.

The man seems stupid now, and he wants to laugh at him. He laughs, and the man laughs back, mouth twitching strangely, smiles warped by a scar. The sound of his laughter echoes in a way it shouldn't. He tries to look away, but he's stuck falling in the empty sky the makes up the man's irises.

Stuck in free fall with the empty man

The rain starts falling from the clouds, and it's bitter as he expected it to be. Except it's warm and salty too, and he hears as it splashes into the sink in front of him. The man in the mirror is crying. He is crying.

They both understand at the same time

* * *

Cel throws a bottle at him that slips through foreign hands and bounces oddly on the floor.

"Sleep replacement." They say, by way of greeting.

He tries to nod appreciatively with a head that isn't his own, so probably makes absolutely no move in real life. If his body is the thing that's real. He doesn't know anymore. He's an inch to the left and tired.

"They're...we're worried about you. Thought you'd prefer something to replace the whole sleep thing than to be forced into sleeping. There's soup downstairs."

They vanish in a way that Sasha would find frustrating. He doesn't want to think about Sasha. He wants to be back in his body.

* * *

All the lights are off. He can't remember who turned them off, or when, or where he is or who he is. All he knows is he cannot sleep.

He cannot sleep. Why?

Crimson flashes in his eyes and the blood is old and whoever he is it isn't his blood. He cannot sleep, or the bloodied woman will find him.

His body sways against the floorboards. The floorboards whisper reassurances. They will embrace him. His eyelids are burning.

He shuts them for a second, an hour; opens them. He will not succumb to sleep. He burns the words into his swaying body. He will not sleep.

* * *

He collapses on the floor, but he doesn't land. He's ~~floating~~ falling.

He falls and falls and he's not hit terminal velocity so maybe he's floating. Something swallows him but there's nothing.

He can't do anything when he's falling. Everything he knows is gone, and all he knows is that he doesn't. He doesn't know and he falls for days and weeks and months and never through whatever circle of hell is the coldest. He doesn't know.

He begs for the end, prays for it in the way he hasn't since he was a kid being told he was a sinner, prays on what might be his hands and knees but are falling away from him far too fast.

He knows there are gods, but none of them answer.

* * *

And then he lands. The grey is gone, as long as he avoids mirrors. The crimson is gone too, as long as he keeps moving. He's burnt the words into himself enough to know them even after the floating.

Zolf grins at him slightly.

"Glad to have you back."

He doesn't even stop to be annoyed at that.

"Who said I was gone?"

Zolf looks at him meaningfully.

"Don't get smart arse on me."

He laughs a laugh that's halfway between hysterical and genuine.

* * *

He starts falling again, but somehow Hamid catches him.

They're in the market, and someone in the crowd moves just a little too fast and suddenly he's falling away from a crowd of faceless strangers. He can't remember who he is or why he's there. He needs to get out.

There's someone in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders. They're saying something, but the words are further out of his grasp than his body is. They lock eyes, and he looks away, to the scaled face.

It's Hamid, but it isn't, because he knows Hamid and this man is a stranger. The stranger goes to touch him, but he flinches away. Everything is wrong. He can't breathe.

Hamid forces him to breathe, brings him back. Wilde blinks, and his body is his own, slumped on the dusty ground. Hamid pulls away, hands shaking.

Hamid is terrified. Wilde would be too, if he wasn't already there.

* * *

The cell is cold and full of stone that leaches the last vestiges of warmth from his shell of a body. The others are curled together. He won't. He doesn't want to hurt them, his ~~friends~~ colleagues. He doesn't know how he'd hurt them. He just knows he will.

He's freezing again. Something almost like mist has settled in his bones and he is shivering on the floor despite the fact he's got a blanket and a bed next to him. He can't find it in himself to get up off this floor, can't even think.

He's halfway between awake and asleep and he doesn't know who he is. Someone reaches out a hand. It's warm. It's warm and he clings to it and curls around it even though he tries not to. He doesn't want the hand to leave, but he knows it has to. He deserves it, whoever he is.

The hand doesn't leave. It grasps him, pulls him into a pile of heat, never letting go. Another hand joins it and brushes through his hair.

"Shh. Come rest."

The hand is callused and the voice is familiar but far away. The mist in his bones burns away in the warmth.

* * *

Hamid asks him if he's ok.

"Fine."

"It's just..."

"How did you do that? The other day."

Hamid curls in on himself a little more than he already has.

"I've always done it. Since I was a kid."

And now, he doesn't say, but it's subtext, and that's the only way Oscar Wilde knows how to do this; to be vunerable. Unspoken words and emotions hidden behind blank statements.

"How do I stop it?"

"I don't...I don't know."

"Fine. That's...fine."

Hamid looks over, but he isn't angry. He looks over, and he sees.

"Tell me about it." And it isn't a request or an order. It's a question, somehow, despite the lack of inflection.

He breathes; opens his mouth and closes it again. He runs his fingers over the scar on his cheek and tugs at his greasy strands of hair and Hamid wrings scaled hands and they let the silence sit.

"Which circle of hell is below freezing?" he asks.

* * *

He starts getting headaches again.

His thoughts are full of death, crimson coating colours he can't bring himself to try and forget; golden armour, black hair, silver crescent moon. His mind is clogged up with the colours, and his head pounds.

He remembers the first time he met them, and wonders whether he deserved to be the one to survive. He has never been the hero. They are gone, and he's still here.

Time drags on, taking more and more but the headaches only get worse.

* * *

He smashes his mirror. Azu worries aloud about bad luck as she wraps up his hand, but he doesn't care. He deserves the bad luck. So far, he's survived and he's not sure he wants to anymore.

She brushes up the glass as he sits on the bed, and glances back at him, dislike and worry warring in her head. He wants to snap, to drive her away so she has a chance of surviving, but he doesn't have the energy.

He's falling again, but he can't bring himself to care.

* * *

His heart is twitching like a hummingbird, now, beating uncomfortably in his chest. Azu and Zolf are trying to heal him, Hamid and Cel are stood back trying not to panic. He doesn't know why they're worried. He's fine. His heart's only sped up because his mother is here.

His mother is dead on the floor. Except she's screaming at him, screaming at him because he's a sinner but she's dead on the floor. He tries to tell them but they won't listen. Why won't they listen?

Then she stops. She stops, and looks at him, and he has just enough time to whisper her name before she's dead again.

"Did he just say?"

"Wilde you're hallucinating. She isn't there. Hold still."

"Oscar, let them help."

He's angry and there are tears and he needs them to leave because they are stopping him from getting to his mother. Cel reaches out to touch him and he bodily throws them backwards.

"I don't need your help! Sasha and Grizzop needed your help. Bertie needed your help, and so did everyone else. I'm fine! I lived."

A door slams and he refuses to look up at who it is, because his mother is smiling at him and he can't tear his eyes away.

* * *

He doesn't know what to do. Everything went quiet and he hasn't seen anyone since. He went too far. He's going to hell.

He avoids them all for days. He feels empty and the anger wasn't his or maybe it was all along. He never apologises. He doesn't know how to. He doesn't know anymore, and it's churning in his gut and spinning through his brain. Maybe the anger was his, but it isn't right.

Nothing is right, he's two inches to the left now and everything feels wrong wrong wrong.

He actually hits the floor, this time, but it doesn't hurt. His body twitches, everything is dark, and he knows he's not falling. Suddenly everything hurts, and he finally sinks into the darkness

* * *

He opens his eyes, and it feels like less effort than it has in months. His bones don't feel so heavy. Then he catches sight of Hamid and Zolf, and the curling in his gut comes back.

"What happened?" Everything feels raw. He doesn't want to think.

"You passed out. Hit your desk on the way down," Zolf says, forced impassivity he knows all too well. "Scared the hell out of us. All of us."

He doesn't respond. He didn't want this, didn't want to wake up and go back to the falling and the memories. He doesn't want to exist.

Hamid flies at him and wraps his arms around him tightly. He realises he's said that aloud.

"I can't lose anyone else. We'll help, we promise, just...stay."

He doesn't remember the last time he had a hug. He leans in, and suddenly he's crying too.

* * *

He barely manages to get any words out through the tears, but somehow they all end up in a pile on Azu’s bed. It’s awkward, nobody really fits together in a way that’s particularly comfortable, Cel especially is far too long and enthusiastic, but it’s warm. He hasn’t been warm in so long.

The mist is still there, but they’ll burn it away together.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was a ride. I sorta wrote this stream-of-consciousness last night having unlocked some repressed memories and yikes.
> 
> Title from Disassociate by Atlas
> 
> The fic is inspired by 'this stress on my back's been severing my spine' but that's Sanders Sides so I'm gonna say that here rather than tagging it


End file.
